


The Arm of Heaven

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Castiel, First Aid, Gentle Sex, Human Castiel, Hunter Castiel, Injured Castiel, M/M, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 04:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2177298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel may be human, but he still fights like an angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Arm of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for [Hellatus Prompt Fic Tuesday](http://itfeltpurefic.tumblr.com/hellatus) on my Tumblr blog.

If he’s gonna be poetic about it — and he is for a minute, so don’t be a douche about it — Dean’s going to say that every fight decides itself.

Doesn’t matter who the combatants are, how good they are, or how prepared. Shit, he’s gone into a couple of gunfights with barely a pig sticker and come out on top. You want to win the fight? Get to know the fight. Listen to it. Make the fight happy. 

Oh, and get the fuck out when that son of a bitch turns on you. Because a pissed off fight’ll kill you. 

Not that he’s following his own advice at this particular moment. They’re so damn close to winning, him and Cas, and if he runs…

There’s a crack as the vamp they’re fighting — the last of fucking six — slams its fist into Cas’ face. Cas stumbles back, consciousness loosening the laces a little bit but not entirely, and…

Well, Dean knows that sometimes you have to bleed for the fight. A sacrifice and a prayer. Your life for the other guy you’re with. And if it’s one of them, he’s sure as hell not throwing Cas under the bus. The guy’s earned himself a longer human life than that. 

So Dean sucks it up, tightens his grip on his machete, and gets ready to make a last ditch charge so Cas can get the hell out. That vamp is gonna make his move, and Dean’ll get the drop, and that’ll be it one way or ano —

Cas snarls, eyes wide and wild. He hooks his fingers into its mouth with his free hand and hauls it in face-first, burying his bowie knife in its throat, severing the spine. He twists the blade, rips it loose, and then slashes the head free. 

The body wavers, like it’s not sure whether or not to fall.

Cas shoves it to the ground and grinds his boot into the dead vamp’s chest. He stands, still holding the thing’s head by the freaking jaw, daring anything else to challenge him. When nothing else approaches, he lets the head drop to the floor, wipes the blood from his blade, and sheathes it in the scabbard on his thigh. 

“Are you alright, Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean stammers. His mouth is dry, and it’s not just from exertion. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

Cas looks him over, nods. “Good. Get the kerosene. We should burn this nest to the ground.”

* * *

Afterward, at the hotel, dean calls Sam to fill him in. 

“Intel was good,” Dean says from his seat at the table. “Whoever’s sending the letters knows what they’re talking about.”

“Maybe so, but I’d rather be out there with you guys.”

“I know, man. But until we figure out who or what we’re dealing with —”

“Yeah, yeah. The Post Office box.” Sam sighs. “I just don’t get why it only opens for me.”

“All part of the mystery, I guess.” Dean takes a long drink of his beer. “Anyway, keep me posted. We’ll stick around in Checotah for a couple of days, get some R&R.”

“I’m gonna pretend you mean antique malls and steer wrestling.”

Dean makes a face. “Steer wrestling? Seriously?”

“Yep,” Sam says. “Checotah’s apparently famous for it.” 

“Huh. Crazy. Anyway, later.”

“Later.” 

Dean puts his phone down and joins Cas on the edge of the bed. 

He’s in his underwear and freshly showered, tending to his wounds. It’s mostly bruises and bloody knuckles, but the stitches in his shoulder don’t look good. Dean touches the skin and Cas winces. 

“I’m about 50/50 on dragging your ass to the ER for these.” He reaches into the first aid kit, squirts some hand sanitizer into his palm, and scrubs his hands together, and then gets his gear together: a fresh needle, thread, scissors, tweezers. “You sure you don’t want a drink first?”

“I’m fine.” 

“Your funeral,” Dean says, and does his best to snip and remove the old thread with a minimum of contact. He cleans the cut — inflamed and angry at having been torn back open — and then picks up the needle. 

He stitches as gently as he can, but there’s only so much he can do, and they don’t have any anesthetic. As still as Cas is, Dean knows this is agony, not just from experience but from the way Cas’ eyes are closed tight, the clench of his jaw, and the way his breaths are hard and fierce. 

“Almost there, buddy.”

Dean finishes the job, gives the wound one last swipe with antiseptic, and then tapes a gauze pad over it. There’s going to be blood tonight for sure, and dollars to donuts this isn’t going to be a pretty scar. 

“I think I’ll take that drink now,” Cas rasps. 

Dean passes him a beer. Cas twists the top and downs half the bottle. He scoots back on the mattress and sits against the headboard. They’re in a double, but they haven’t needed that second bed for a while. 

“You stink,” Cas teases when Dean leans in for a kiss. Their lips meet, soft and familiar, and Dean’s chest aches in the best way. “Go get your shower.”

* * *

Cas is surfing channels when Dean joins him in bed, skin still pink from the hot water. “Anything on?”

“Fishing shows. Infomercials. The man who took over for Buddy Boyle.”

“Pay-Per-View?”

Cas rolls his eyes.

“Spoilsport,” Dean says, but reaches for the light.

They nestle close under the blanket in the dark, Cas curled in tight with Dean against his back. He traces little lines on Cas’ belly with his fingertips.

“You’re beautiful when you fight,” he whispers. “That last vamp kill —”

“Mmm.” 

Cas nudges Dean’s hand lower, past the waistband of his briefs to his soft cock. Dean squeezes, rubs his thumb against the length. He smiles when he feels Cas start to harden at his touch. 

“I could watch you all day.” 

“That would be weird.” Cas starts to reach around to touch Dean, then hisses. “Damn shoulder.”

Dean sits up, scoots, and rolls Cas onto his back. He pushes the blanket down and strips out of his briefs. “Gonna make this easier for both of us.” 

He’s only half-hard himself when he straddles Cas, but the feel of another cock against his and the stroke of his and Cas’ hands solve that pretty admirably.

They breathe together, touching each other and themselves by turns. Dean shudders at the brush of Cas’ knuckles as much as from the friction from his calluses. Pleasure pools in his belly every time they squeeze their dicks together in a shared grip. Their hips rock together in a lazy rhythm, deep enough to make the mattress creak but not wild enough to knock the wall. 

Dean takes advantage of a slick of precum and traces circles at the base of Cas’ head with his thumb. It earns him a low moan and a tighter grasp around his own dick.

“Wanna come like this, or do you want me to suck you off?”

“Like this,” Cas gasps and works his hand just a little faster. “Just like this.” 

He lets Cas’ hand drive his hips, and speeds his own hand to match the rhythm. There’s just barely enough light in the room that Dean can make out the planes of his body and the blissful expression on his face, but Dean has memorized the way Cas’ skin sheens with sweat and the subtle flush of his tanned skin.

“Gorgeous,” he says. “So fucking gorgeous.” 

Cas bucks up when he comes, his free fingers gripping Dean’s thigh, leaving crescent-shaped marks in his skin. It’s not the pain that sends Dean past the point of no return, exactly. More like the urgency of it, and the way Cas loses himself in the moment of orgasm, and then Dean is there, gasping and thrusting into the grip of Cas’ hand until he’s spent. 

He slumps down onto the mattress, mindful of Cas’ injured shoulder and fumbles around in the dark for his underwear. He mops them clean with his briefs, then tosses the sodden cotton onto the floor.

“Thank you,” Cas says, still catching his breath. 

“Any time,” he says, and nips at the corner of Cas’ mouth. Their kisses are loose and slow, post-coital buzzy as they rearrange themselves into a sleepable tangle, Dean’s face tucked into the crook of Cas’ good arm. legs entwined, Cas holding him close and playing with his hair. He’s already dozing when Cas pulls the blanket up over them and murmurs a goodnight.


End file.
